


Lose Your Soul

by deliciousshame



Series: asscreedkinkmeme [10]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Implied Mpreg, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Non-Consensual, Omega Altaïr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-18
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-07-25 23:17:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7551043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deliciousshame/pseuds/deliciousshame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He'd been too worried about sparing Kadar the fate their kind suffer when caught to worry about himself. Now that he's Robert de Sablé's, he can't believe he was this foolish. </p><p>(repost with new parts)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Original

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for Gray (if you're still around, hi!), ended up writing other parts for other people too, and now restarted because an exchange with Enchanting_Codswallop had me open the dreaded AC wips folder, have even more Omega!Altaïr. For people who have read this before, the last two chapters are new, i.e. a prequel about Altaïr first learning to cope with what he is and Altaïr and Malik's first heat, because if I added those to Assortment it would make for like half of it and it already makes for too much of it. Anyway, the new parts aren't for the kink meme (r.i.p. asscreedkinkmeme).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [Here](http://asscreedkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/2158.html?thread=11878510#cmt11878510) is the original prompt and fill.

Kadar is losing. Death would be the kindest fate he could expect should the Templars take him. All Assassins are prepared for torture, but omegas always risk worse.

There is a kinship uniting the omegas of the Brotherhood. Often ostracized by accident or by design, they support one another when betas and alphas won’t. He doesn’t have to think about it. He focuses on Kadar’s assailant, takes a few seconds to deflect the sword coming for the younger omega with his.

It’s a few seconds he couldn’t afford. Robert de Sablé comes from behind him, thrusting his sword into his shoulder. He barely manages to dodge, but the resulting wound, while not life threatening, still stuns him for a moment. Robert gets a hold of his wrists and holds them together behind Altaïr’s back in such a way that releasing the hidden blade would only lacerate his own hands. Robert’s sword rests against Altaïr’s throat. He can’t escape.

He witnesses Malik dragging both Kadar and the Apple away as the remaining Templars are ordered to make sure Altaïr won’t have the slightest chance of running. At least Malik will be pleased; he has proved himself better than Altaïr and is rid of him. A complete success, surely.

The remaining henchmen fidget, unsure of their role but pointing crossbows at him while de Sablé searches him for weapons. He is rigorous. He finds every short blade and daggers, removes all throwing knifes, disarms the hidden blade with an ease that speaks of familiarity and that is cause for concern, but as long as he doesn’t find the herbs…

“And what have we here?”

Many countries have outlawed the use of suppressants. Christianity denounces them as an unnatural tool to hide oneself from the duties given by God. Islam shares a similar discourse. The Assassins don’t care: everything is permitted. They will use every tool at their disposition.

Still, even if the consequences for possession can be quite dire, they are frequently used everywhere. The rich and the powerful don’t let prohibitions dictate their actions. For the average man, it can still be worth the risk. The probabilities that every Templar in the room has been in contact with suppressants in some way and can tell what is in the small pouch are very high. Suppressants have a particular, quite pungent smell.

Robert de Sablé addresses his men. “Congratulations! You were all defeated by an omega! Make sure to tell this to your fellow soldiers while you narrate your exploits of tonight.” They redden. So embarrassed and ashamed of having failed against him, like many before them. What they all thought never stopped Altaïr.

De Sablé turns to him. “You serve cruel masters. Barbarians, really. Forcing you to take drugs and sending you to the battlefield addled and handicapped when you should be bearing children with an alpha watching over you.” Robert grabs his chin, abnormally gently, to look into his eyes, before letting his gaze roam over the whole of him. “Not that you would have difficulty finding one, too. It really is a pity what they do to you. When the Templars destroy your faction, rest assured that your brethren will be treated as omegas should. So will you.” The hand supporting his chin rises to cover his mouth, stopping him from letting out the myriad of rebukes such words demand. De Sablé hails two guards. “Make sure he’s secure and have him kept in a proper chamber for an omega. I want him safe, I want him healthy, and I want him as guarded as he can be. And for God’s sake, destroy those suppressants. The sooner they’re out of him, the sooner he’ll understand how his order has wronged him of what should be his by nature.” The guards throw themselves into obeying. Under the Templars’ Grand Master’s vigilant gaze, he’s gagged and tied, dragged and passed around until he’s on de Sablé’s horse, de Sablé himself holding the rein from behind him. They’re pressed together, and Altaïr hates that he can’t kill him, that he’s tied and that his shoulder, sluggishly bleeding, will need tending to soon enough.

They ride and ride until they reach what must a Templar base, a surprisingly huge castle that Altaïr has never heard of. The two guards take charge of him once more. He’s sent to a doctor who does a better job at bandaging his wound than he should for a prisoner, then thrown into a room with steel bars blocking all openings in the outside wall. The door is blocked and locked from the outside. Altaïr is left alone.

Isolation isn’t a problem for Altaïr. He sleeps. He eats when food is brought to him. He meditates. He goes through plans after plans to try to find an escape route. He keeps his mind occupied. Anything not to feel the minutes pass, the suppressants slowly leaving his system.

His room is guarded by an almost exaggerated number of betas. Almost. Altaïr knows his strength. No alphas around to be distracted by his rising scent, turning heavier as time advances.

For him, interrogation would have been easier. He’s not Kadar. He is Al Mualim’s favorite. He can take anything the Templars throw at him. This, this endless waiting for a betrayal of his mind and heart by his body, this is insupportable.

When he wakes up, the sun rising on the third day of his incarceration, the first symptoms have started to manifest. He is restless, unable to stay still, yet his body is sluggish. The world becomes more fragrant. He can tell the exact number of guards surrounding his room from their faint scent, the mark of a beta, nothing like the sweet smell of other omegas or the musk of a strong alpha.

It only worsens as the sun rises and falls. He can’t focus. He startles at every noise. There is heat travelling through his limbs. After hours of such torments, he falls into a troubled sleep.

He wakes up in fire, erection thrusting against the bed. The heat has taken a firm hold of him during the night. The need hits him hard, stops him from doing anything other than taking himself in hand and rub until he comes, an unsatisfying orgasm that barely clears his mind. He knows it is not what his treacherous body crave.

He removes his clothes. He won’t need them. Other things will be required. Aware of his enemy’s goal, he isn’t surprised to find salve left for his use. In this case, he won’t complain.

He’s loose, ready to welcome an alpha. The first finger enters him too easily, barely gives him the friction he’s looking for. It takes three to make it good for him, but it still isn’t enough. If only the guards weren’t all betas, he’s sure he could get one to join him in here. They are soldiers. They’re strong. They could take him, push him down the bed and fuck him until he screams… But they’re still enemies. Someone friendly would be better. Malik would. How he’d rejoice, having Altaïr under him, helpless against the need in his blood, opening for him. The image of Malik hammering into him until he has shouted himself raw drives him to completion.

He breathes deeply, trying to take advantage of a few minutes of clarity to regain some control. As much as he hates it, it will only get worse, the heat increasing its hold on him, robbing him of his mind and his autonomy until he’s satisfied. For that, he’ll need an alpha.

Not that he has much experience with alphas and heat. The Order has all omegas taking suppressants as soon as they manifest. He’s been told it is to favor equal treatment for all, but a new omega is always the subject of gossip. Every resident of Masyaf is aware in a few days. Whether they can smell it or not doesn’t change a thing. It is well known that suppressants are really taken so that alphas aren’t distracted by the omegas. It also allows omegas to save their first heat for their spouse.

All ridiculous, if you ask Altaïr. But no one would ask the omega.

Through his dazzled mind, the departure of one of the guards is remarked. He’s probably going to report about his heat. They’ll send him an alpha. There’s no point in leaving him like this. He’ll be barely coherent soon. They won’t get anything out of him.

Maybe he can make it quick. He’s stretched. He’d need no preparation.

The world starts spinning slightly. Altaïr lies on his back. He stares at the ceiling. He waits. It’s torture, but he wants to be as ready to confront the alpha as he can be. His hands dig into the sheets.

There’s an alpha approaching. Their scent calls to him. He can almost see them advance in the hallway.

But there’s something… He recognizes the smell. He’s met that alpha.

It hits him as the locks are opened. Robert de Sablé. Not only the Templars will shame him by using him when he’s most vulnerable, they’ll do so by the hand of their Grand Master, the Assassins’ most loathed enemy.

Robert enters the room. Altaïr immediately feels underestimated. The man came alone and unarmed. Then he feels exposed, naked, while de Sablé unabashedly stares and joins him on the bed. Finally, the presence of an alpha hits him, and Altaïr loses the next seconds to the overwhelming desire that has him rub his whole body against de Sablé’s.

The laugh de Sablé lets out frees him from that spell. “Here. This is how you should be. This is what you were born to do. Let yourself have this. You’ll thank me after.”

It can’t be borne: Altaïr punches him. Or try to: he isn’t at his peak. De Sablé dodges easily and tackles him down the bed. Altaïr can’t repress the shiver, not helped by de Sablé’s hand caressing the side of this face. “Oh, you still have this much control. You really have a strong will. You’re wasted as an Assassin. They had you and decided to send you to your inevitable doom instead of letting you follow your instincts. Pure folly.”

De Sablé kisses him. Altaïr should bite. It’s what he’d do if he could. Instead, he opens his mouth and fists his hands into his clothes, intruding barriers between them. Robert sees it as the invitation it was; he plunges. Clothes are removed as fast as humanly possible. Altaïr is hard, he’s leaking, he needs Robert into him now, and Robert knows. He slid a finger into Altaïr, the tease, that’s not what he craves. Robert must agree, because the digit is pulled out and swiftly replaced by Robert’s cock. Altaïr howls.

Robert fucks him, each thrust more violent than the next, and that’s exactly what Altaïr needed. Teeth sink into his neck, a show of dominance that has Altaïr moan and tilt his head. It’s the prelude to Robert’s knot, finally breaching him, until Altaïr feels so full, so complete. Robert starts coming inside of him, and it’s too much for Altaïr.

Between the whimpers and the inspirations as Altaïr tries to settle down while Robert is still inside of him, still so good in him, Robert pushes Altaïr’s head to his neck, caresses him in a soothing motion even as he grinds into him, the knot an unmistakable pressure inside of Altaïr that will deliver him to ecstasy once more soon enough. “I wish you would have let me be kinder to you. You deserved to be treated with more respect. All of us have our role to play and all of us deserve respect for it.” He’s being kissed again, a tender press of lips, almost chaste. “But do not worry. We’ll have other occasions.”

They will. Altaïr is already hardening again. His heat is far from over.

________________

“I told you not to move.”

Altaïr never liked being ordered around. He trashes.

“Stop or I’ll tie you up.”

There is a small, far away part of him that react at this, that tells him not to submit to him of all men, to fight him off. It’s drowned by the part that loves it, that wants nothing more than stay still under the alpha’s tongue slowly mapping his body, Robert spreading his thighs and settling between them as he travels lower, lower, lower…  
________________

“More.”

“I am so sorry, I didn’t quite hear you. Please repeat.”

“More, please.”

Robert’s laugh now sounds familiar. “Of course.” He speeds up the languid pace he’s been torturing him with for what appeared to him as hours, but it’s still too slow, too shallow. Not what he needs. He uses his nails to scratch Robert’s back deeply and growls. Enough of this teasing.

The message is understood. Altaïr screams as Robert slams into him.

________________

“Come on, you can do it.”

He can, but it’s hard. Rising and falling on Robert’s cock demand both coordination and strength, and he has exhausted both. Even when supporting himself on Robert’s chest, it’s still much to ask for.

Robert grabs his erection, pulls and tugs until desperation has him riding him faster, deeper, until Robert’s come warms him inside once more.

________________

It is like the world changed from one morning to the next. Everything appears the same, but nothing is familiar. His every muscle hurts if he so much as twitches, but never as much as his spirit does when he observes the man sleeping in his bed. Robert de Sablé. He gave himself to Robert de Sablé without a fight. He let him have him. He loved every single moment of it. This couldn’t be him, not Altaïr, Al Mualim’s beloved pupil, a Master Assassin, one of Masyaf’s strongests. Not him, sharing a bed with Robert de Sablé.

He has to leave. He can’t stay here any longer. It will destroy him.

But how does he escape?

By being who Robert wants him to be, of course. He couldn’t escape before: he had no hook. He does now. He starts planning.

When Robert wakes, Altaïr evades his gaze. He is blushing slightly, and his expression isn’t as hard as it could be. He doesn’t make a move to attack.

Robert grasps his face until their eyes meet. Altaïr holds only a few moments, then looks elsewhere. When Robert moves to kiss him, his eyes widen but he doesn’t fight.

Robert smiles, satisfied. “You don’t have to say anything. I know you understand. It was inevitable. You’re mine, as you should have always been. Leaving you to your own design, without an alpha of your own, was bound to be disastrous.” He pulls Altaïr next to him. “I will take care of you. Never shall you be on a battlefield again.”

Altaïr stays silent, but snuggles closer to Robert. It is comforting.

Robert helps him clean up and guides him outside the room that was his prison for a relative eternity. He doesn’t say anything when the guards throw suggestive looks, when they make crude jokes about how easy the omega slut was as soon as they pass.

Robert locates their commander and has them all demoted. It surprises Altaïr that Robert is this serious about omegas, about him. Most men would have let such incidents go, if not joined in. He can almost hear the bragging.

No matter what kind of man he is, he is still an idiot. He lets Altaïr into his personal quarters and tells him he’ll be back soon. As soon as he’s gone, Altaïr rampages through the place, finds secret documents and unheard-of information, and then escapes with it all through the window. He’ll be late to Masyaf, but he won’t come back empty-handed. He’ll use what he got today against the Templars. He’ll become stronger. He’ll fight. Until this affront is avenged. Until the day he can have Robert’s head.


	2. The Cracky Misfire Fill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on the kink meme, [here](http://asscreedkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/2158.html?thread=12001390#cmt12001390).

Finally, one of the guards tasked with the surveillance of the omega comes for him. There can be no mistake: when even the betas can tell, an omega is burning for an alpha to join them. The waiting has been excruciating, but it is now over with.

Robert dismisses his subordinates, taking note of the alpha, who probably thinks he’s being quiet, complaining that it’s not fair the Grand Master gets the omega, that he should share, like omegas are commodities to be traded. There will be consequences.

Of course, he knows where his omega is kept, but even if he didn’t, finding him wouldn’t be a hardship. The irresistible scent escapes his room, creating a trail that the alphas close by want to follow but know better to. He’s the only one allowed to tread these tracks.

His hand on the unlocked door, he waits a few seconds, savoring the anticipation and the knowledge that on the other side is the price he wrestled from the Order of the Assassins, flushed and overwhelmed, his.

He pushes the door.

The scent is instantly overpowering, but never as much as the sight of the omega himself. He’d been expecting to see him blushing, spread over the bed, and covered in sweat. If he had been very lucky, maybe close enough to the edge for pleas to escape him.

God must be rewarding him, because the Assassin is leaning on his chest, legs spread and hips raised as he’s pushing four fingers inside and stroking himself. Robert stands, stunned, as his omega moans and trashes under his own touch, until he comes, crashing on the bed. Only then does he seem to realize he’s not alone in the room. He turns his head and hold Robert’s gaze as he deliberately spreads his legs even further and bring his right hand, soiled with his own seed, to his lips.

“I- You- Nnngghh” He can't -mind blown- “I love you.”

He gets a downright dirty grind in return, and there is nothing else to do but join him on that bed and make sure he takes the cheeky omega until he can’t spare a single thought to being such a tease ever again.


	3. The Sequel

The map stolen from de Sablé’s room indicates the castle is somewhere south of Damascus. Now that he knows where he is, he could go back directly to Masyaf. Al Mualim should be told of his escape as soon as possible.

He’ll stop by Damascus before. It will lengthen his trip, but in the end it will lessen his burden.

The Templars haven’t given chase. Altaïr was probably too far by the time his disappearance was noticed. It might also be that they couldn’t find him; he used less traveled paths rather than the main roads.

Entering Damascus isn’t difficult, but walking its streets is. Being a lone omega is risky; most don’t dare. The robes the Assassins wear are designed for subtlety, for blending in, but when every gust of wind carries his scent, he can’t help but attract the attention of merchants and workers who wouldn’t give him a second glance otherwise. Guards are worse. Most of them are alphas, and they’re used to people surrendering to them. The roofs are far easier.

If the Rafiq of Damascus is surprised to see him drop through his roof, he hides it behind his usual demeanor: “Altaïr! How nice to see you, friend! I should have known stories of your demise were greatly exaggerated. The great Altaïr would not fall under a couple of Templars’ swords. What bring you to my bureau?” The smoke coming from the burning incense, flowing through the air, only masks his scent from afar; as Altaïr reaches him, he catches on. His face falls a little, becomes serious; it’s the face of someone who won’t ask but knows much. “I shall have what you need in a few hours.” Rafiq are aware of their city’s underbelly like no one else. Suppressants won’t be hard to find for him. “Do you require any other treatment?”

“No, I am fine. Do not worry.”

“Stay here, friend. Rest until I return.”

He does. The pillows he lies on, the smoke reaching every corner of the room, the sun hitting his face; everything is familiar and safe. He falls asleep easily.

________________

The trip back to Masyaf is smoother. He procures a horse and uses the main road. He revels in his restored anonymity, to the observer just one more beta in an ocean of others, nothing to be concerned about.

He’s recognized when he reaches the outskirts of the town. His absence was remarked, his return even more so. People lower their voices when he passes. They share glances. They don’t talk to him, nor should they. Altaïr must report to Al Mualim before anything else.

Rauf hails him. “Altaïr! You’ve returned! We thought you dead.”

“I am still alive, but I must talk to the Master.”

“Yes, of course.” Rauf wants to say more, but this isn’t the time and they both know it.

Altaïr spots Abbas and evades him. He has no patience for his insults and insinuations today.

He’s quickly ushered to the Mentor’s side as soon as he enters the Fortress. Al Mualim rarely lets his emotions on display, but his evident concern warms Altaïr. It reminds him that not every alpha is an enemy.

He can’t lie to Al Mualim. He lets clinical words describe what happened to him without lingering on it. Al Mualim deplores Robert de Sablé’s continued existence, but never as much as Altaïr himself. He updates him on the Solomon’s Temple mission: Malik and Kadar both safe, the Apple theirs. A weight he hadn’t been conscious of disappears. The mission was a success. It wasn’t in vain. He almost stumbles as the tension leaves him. Al Mualim notices and releases him to his rest, but not without ordering him to visit Salim immediately.

It isn’t a visit he wants to make, but he would never skip it.

He thanks the Mentor and departs to find Salim’s workshop. He enters the room, where Salim is currently mixing a remedy or another. There is no one else. At least in this he is lucky. “Salim, a word.”

The healer jumps, so focused he missed his arrival. A smile appears on his face when he recognizes him. “Altaïr! You’re alive!”

“Yes, but this isn’t a courtesy call.”

Salim frowns. “What is it? Where you tortured? Where are the wounds? Show me!”

“No, I am healthy, but I’ll need... something else.”

Altaïr isn’t the first to come to Salim for such things, and he won’t be the last. He sighs and locks the room, usually left open. For Assassins, privacy isn’t a common luxury. “Tell me what happened.”

The second retelling, even curter than the first, isn’t easier. At the end, Salim knows what to do. He opens a cabinet and pulls out a splattering of herbs, with firm instructions about when to take them and how often, and a standing order to come back as soon as possible should they prove unsuccessful at preventing the pregnancy.

Altaïr doubts it will be necessary. Salim is a master of his craft.

He leaves the workshop, the herbs safely kept in a pouch next to the rest of the suppressants, intend on finding his room. He’ll confront his brothers tomorrow.

He should have known he wouldn’t be given this choice. He spots Malik as soon as he crosses the threshold of his chamber, sitting on his chair like it’s his right. It comes back to him in a flash, the fantasies he’d entertained while under the heat’s hold, Malik taking him. He pushes everything aside. Altaïr can’t handle Malik right now. He’ll deflect. “Al Mualim told me you had been promoted. Congratulations on completing the mission.”

Malik startles. Whatever he was expecting Altaïr to say, this wasn’t it. He starts a sentence, stops, starts again. “Thank you.” The silence hangs between them. “I saw what you did. You saved Kadar. He’d be dead if you hadn’t shielded him. Even if your impatience caused the attack in the first place, I guess the Templars amply punished you for it.”

Altaïr feels himself tense. Malik shouldn’t know. There are no marks on him, Altaïr made sure of it.

It’s Malik’s expression that reveals the truth. There’s no judgment, no pity. Malik thinks he’s been incarcerated, maybe interrogated rather forcefully, but he looks fine and so he must be. Altaïr relaxes. This he can deal with. “Nothing I couldn’t handle. How is Kadar?”

“He’s well. He was worried about you. Make sure to visit him tomorrow.”

He’ll end up lashing at Malik if this continues. He always rubs him the wrong way. “Don’t order me around. You might have been promoted, but I still outrank you.”

Malik visibly restrains himself. “I can see you’re tired. I’m leaving for tonight, but don’t think this is the end of this.” He raises himself up, walk through the door, but turns before closing it. “Just take care of yourself, would you? Can’t have the great Master Assassin defeated by carelessness.”

“Yes, Malik, I will. Go.”

“Fine, fine, I’m leaving.” The door closes, rather more violently than it needs to.

Altaïr goes to bed in blessed solitude.

________________

The Fortress is oppressive. Altaïr has to deal with furtive glances, whispers following his steps, well-meaning friends commiserating. There is crass speculation, but nothing as bad as it would have been if he’s came back without suppressants. Speculation would have been replaced by certainty. He’d have been shunned, like his defilement could spread. Some have suffered it before. It is one of the risks of their business.

He’s respected. He came back suppressed and safe. His brothers and sisters will talk, but this is all they will do.

He finds Kadar in the garden, chatting with a few other omegas. They disperse once they see him, leaving the two of them alone, but they linger not too far from them. For all talk of equality, most high-ranked assassins are alphas, with a few betas here and there. Altaïr is the only Master Assassin in Masyaf who is also an omega. Many envy him his success or hope to emulate him.

Kadar embraces him with too much eagerness. “Altaïr! You really are safe! Brother told me so, but he can be obtuse sometimes. Thank you so much for saving me! I will repay this debt, I promise.” Altaïr lets Kadar prattle on. It’s soothing.

Seeing they won’t get anything special from him, the other omegas still hanging nearby leave. Kadar stops babbling as soon as they’re out of earshot. “What really happened, Altaïr? They did not manage to capture you and then throw you in a cell to rot until you ran.” Trust Kadar not to be fooled by the airs he puts on.

“They destroyed my suppressants.” Kadar won’t need to know more. It’s a possibility all omegas learn to live with.

“Did you kill them?”

“No.”

“Did you get Robert de Sablé?”

He waits a second too late before answering. Kadar catches on. “What is it? What did he do? Oh.” He leans on him and takes his hand, wordless gestures of solidarity. “He’ll pay. The Order is after him, it’s only a matter of time before another opportunity arises. We’ll succeed this time.” He says it with such conviction, Altaïr almost believes him to be capable of it.

“Don’t tell Malik.”

“I would never! He might take it upon himself to avenge your virtue.” Kadar speaks that sentence with all seriousness it deserves: while rolling his eyes, mimicking Malik’s self-righteousness with more enthusiasm than talent. “Maybe it would be the shock he’d need to start his courtship.” He instantly turns contrite. “I’m sorry; alphas probably are the last subject you’re interested in.”

He’d much prefer listening to Kadar rambling about his favorite unlikely theory that Malik and he are meant to be than facing his pity. “Don’t apologise. I’m fine.”

Kadar just gives him a look. He’s obviously not convinced. He squeezes his hand. “Just… tell me if you need anything. Anything at all.”

How weak he must look that Kadar, still almost a novice, believes he needs to be babied? “I don’t need your concern. Worry about yourself. You let yourself open back there. You need more training.”

Kadar allows the distraction. They don’t talk about it again.

________________

Life goes on. He quickly goes back to his duties. He isn’t surprised when the Mentor summons him. With the Apple in their possession, they are ready to move forward with their plans to take down the Templars. Altaïr is given his next mission: the assassination of Tamir, a merchant working in Damascus and a Templar. He is told that it is one of many Templars whose deaths are necessary for the Brotherhood, and that many are combining their efforts toward the accomplishment of their goal.

He leaves with Malik, who has been tasked with the elimination of Garnier de Naplouse.

The assassination goes well, as do the others.

When Al Mualim tasks him with the final death, Robert de Sablé, to be accomplished at Madj Addin’s funeral, he hears his Master’s message that he should not hate his victim, but it does not reach him. De Sablé deserves his hatred as surely as he deserves to die.

He departs for Jerusalem with a lighter heart.

________________

Only when he goes for the killing blow does he comprehend the deception. Blinded by his desire for revenge, he didn’t let himself acknowledge the slighter stature and the unfamiliar scent, a different alpha hidden under the armor. The woman taunts him, flaunts de Sablé’s strategy. The urge to kill her rises, but she isn’t his target and so he lets her go.

He rides for Arsuf. He eliminates everyone who tries to block his path.

He ends his ride once he meets King Richard. Trying to convince him of de Sablé’s treachery turns out to be futile. The king won’t listen to him, especially not with the Templars’ Grand Master spitting out lies in his face. But as long as he doesn’t reveal Altaïr’s nature, he might just change his mind.

The king declares a trial by combat. Altaïr can support such a choice.

De Sablé is a powerful opponent. As much as it pains him to admit it, he might suffer better if he didn’t use the closeness the duel dictates to talk to him. “So we meet again, Assassin. It appears I was too soft on you. I expected you to understand what you needed once shown. I underestimated the power of your Order on their slaves. It was my mistake, one I won’t make again. Expect no more freedom when you’re back in my bed.”

Altaïr blocks out the jeering of the surrounding soldiers and choose to focus on the pile of their comrades’ corpses. De Sablé couldn’t have made a more obvious declaration of war. “The only bed you’ll ever lie in again will be the earth, and I won’t be sharing it with you.” Altaïr redoubles his efforts.

When it finally happens, Robert de Sablé’s death by his blade is the sweetest he’s ever brought. He’d like to reveal in it, but if Robert de Sablé didn’t lie, as unlikely as it seems, then Altaïr has other, more important worries. This must wait.

________________

“Who is she?”

Altaïr frowns. “Who?”

“This girl you’re drawing. It isn’t the first time I see her.”

The Apple sometimes distracts him with mirages, visions of the past or of what might have been. This little girl, strong and playful but too fair, her hair too pale, is but one of the phantoms it mirrors. He sees her something, playing with other children too young to know better under the wary glares of their parents.

“She’s no one.”

Malik scolds. “That’s why I have been finding sketches of her all over the place. Because she’s no one. Do you take me for an idiot?” He snatches the drawing, still barely an outline of her face, and stares at it. “She looks like you.”

“She doesn’t. You’re delusional.”

“And you’re defensive. She has your nose. And your lips. Maybe your ears, it’s hard to tell on this drawing.”

“She is but an illusion the Apple likes to torment me with. No one of import.”

“The Apple couldn’t torment you with someone who doesn’t matter!” Malik startles. “You have no sister, no cousin. When did you lose a child?”

“I didn’t! She never existed!”

The sheet of paper crushes under Malik’s grip. “She’s a few years old. You didn’t have someone then. I would have known. You never had. People are starting to talk, saying you should be married already, that it should be your duty to give the Brotherhood heirs. Does she have something to do with that?”

Altaïr slumps, defeated. “I’ll be honest, Malik, old friend. I have no idea.”

Malik closes on him and grasps his shoulder. “Whose child would she be?”

He could probably continue to argue with Malik, to refuse to answer and antagonise him until they both forgot what they were arguing about, but after all these years, Malik earned the truth. “Robert de Sablé.”

Malik shakes him. “Childish deflexions won’t placate me!”

Altaïr pushes him off. “It’s the truth. Ask Kadar if you do not believe me.”

That shakes Malik. He’s visibly being overwhelmed by disgust. “Why him? Literally everyone else would have been better. It’s not like you couldn’t have your pick.”

Give him strength. “I was not exactly given a choice in the matter. He took my suppressants after the mission at Solomon’s Temple.”

Malik freezes. He usually gesticulates in anger. Seeing him still is upsetting. “All this time, this happened to you and you never told me, but Kadar knew. Why?”

“Please. You did not need to know. You’re an alpha, the possibility didn’t even cross your mind. Kadar guessed the first time we met, after.”

“I… It’s been years.” Malik’s voice is bitter, as if he had a right. “Nothing I could say would change a thing.”

“So don’t say anything and let it go.”

“Like you did, hanging on to the image of a girl that never was! Even you cannot think that healthy. If you want children, marry and have some. Don’t let the Apple play you like this!”

He says it like it’s easy, like Altaïr could just go and parade himself in front of alphas and hope he catches their eyes. “You’re one to talk! I’m not the only one alone and childless.”

“I was waiting for you, you idiot! I thought you weren’t ready. I didn’t want to pressure you!”

“Like you could pressure me into anything.” It is lucky he can banter with Malik without thinking about it, because he’s the one who now can’t summon a coherent thought other than “Kadar will be insufferable for weeks, if not months”.

“Well, if you’re that sure of yourself, think about it and come back to me when you have an answer.” Malik escapes the room with all the speed of the Master Assassin he is, leaving a still completely bewildered Altaïr behind.

He can’t say he ever considered Malik seriously, but he can’t say he ever considered anyone seriously. Maybe Malik was right; he’s been too caught up in things from the past, things that wouldn’t be.

He knocks on Malik’s door a few days later. Malik pulls him inside and tries to appear calm and collected while he’s visibly steeling himself. Altaïr sees no reason to lengthen this.

“Let’s try it.”

Poor Malik didn’t expect it. “What? What are you talking about?”

“As if you didn’t know.”

He drops the act. “What, are you sure?”

“No, I only came here to tease you and leave. Of course I’m sure.”

The door slams behind Kadar. “Is is done? Are you two together now? When am I going to be an uncle?”

Altaïr starts for the door. “Malik, I’m sorry, I can’t be related to your brother. Goodbye.”

The long-suffering look really is one of Malik’s specialities. “I hate you both.”

Kadar snorts. “No one has ever believed that.”

As Malik and Kadar bickers (I hated him for years! –You wish you had hated him for years, that’s not the same thing), Altaïr figures he, speaking for himself, can’t hate anything that brought him here, in this moment.


	4. The Dark Alternate Sequel

“I believe I should apologise.” Robert starts removing his armor. “I did not intend to come back so late, but our mission has been retarded by your friends trying to eliminate me again. Don’t worry, we took care of it without major losses.” Once he’s naked, he sits on the bed and caresses Altaïr’s cheek. “I’m starting to think this might be personal. You probably still have allies within the Brotherhood.”

Altaïr moans and pushes back against his hand. “I’m sorry. You can’t possibly care about this right now.” Altaïr in heat never loses his attraction for Robert. Staying away, knowing his omega was slowly losing his mind waiting for him, was torture unlike any other.

Robert barely has to prepare Altaïr before he takes him. Altaïr wraps his legs and arms around him and spread his head back as he screams, leaving his delicious neck exposed for him to bite. He’s always so welcoming and open when heat takes him over. Would that he were always this way.

________________

Altaïr wakes up confused and disoriented. The sun blinds him when he wakes, which doesn’t help. He moves to try to hide his eyes. When the pain coming from everywhere hits him, he remembers everything: being in heat, alone, until de Sablé arrives.

He’s alone once more. Damn it. He’d have loved to watch Robert’s peaceful sleeping face distorts as Altaïr strangles him. It would have meant his death sentence, as most Templars, amused at the beginning by Robert de Sablé’s choice in broodmare, now find him an embarrassment at best and a potential catastrophe at worst. They would love to kill him and be done with it.

It would be worth it. What he has right now scarcely qualify as a life.

He lies back on the bed and closes his eyes. Unconsciously, his hand caresses his belly. Still flat. For now. De Sablé had been coldly angry about him not becoming pregnant during his last heat. Altaïr knows he’s been suspected of having found a way to prevent that pregnancy, but with the level of surveillance he’s being subjected to, it would be impossible even for him. The Templar had learnt his lesson. No more carelessly abandoning Altaïr in unsecured rooms. Altaïr has tried every trick: escape and fighting and refusing to eat and seduction and countless others, but to no avail. He was condemned to remain here for the foreseeable future, with only his most hated nemesis as “company”.

Altaïr is aware that most of this can be traced to their first meeting. Not only did he play De Sablé like a puppet, he made sure no fruits would result of their union. He’s never been forgiven for not letting nature follow its course after his first heat. Altaïr had informed him of this not long after the beginning of his second incarceration, both of them bloody from the aftermath of De Sablé trying once again to “exercise his rights” upon his omega. The man had been stunned. It was obvious the thought that an omega might not want to have a child had never crossed his mind. It had been the first time the man had realised Altaïr might not eventually become what he wanted, that his presence and handling might not change Altaïr into the perfect docile omega.

Not that it ever stopped him from trying.

The last straw had been their son. De Sablé had been so convinced that the pregnancy would soften his temper. That delusion had disappeared pretty quickly. Altaïr had no intention of “taking care of himself for the baby’s sake”, or “bettering their relationship so that they could be good parents together”. Then the child was born, and Altaïr had wanted nothing to do with it, this infant forced on him, despite Robert’s increasingly desperate attempts and threats. Stubbornness had been the only weapon he had left. In the end, the kid had been taken away, neglect having taken its toll. Altaïr hasn’t seen him since. Good riddance. De Sablé still brought him up from time to time, some part of him unable to comprehend that Altaïr didn’t care. He still believed that if enough time passed, he’d crack and beg him to be allowed to see his son. The man was a lost cause. If only he could see that so was Altaïr.

He takes a deep breath. Scraps of his heat start coming back. Their first heat together had been years ago, but Altaïr still can’t accept the memories, coming back blurred each time. It couldn’t be him, begging for cock like a common harlot, every gesture an invitation for Robert de Sablé to violate him, him riding de Sablé until he can’t bear his own weight, or screaming himself raw under each assault. Altaïr grits his teeth as his nails dig into his palms. The bloody crescents are but one more mark desecrating his body, de Sablé’s teeth and nails having left their traces all over him. He can’t deny the truth of his situation when the proofs are spread all over him.

Another memory presents itself. De Sablé did say something about the Brotherhood. That they’re still trying to destroy him, and that it might be personal. Altaïr doesn’t think so. The removal of the Grand Master of the Templar is a logical objective for the Brotherhood, no matter who leads it right now. What he knows about the Assassins these past years, he’s learned from whatever de Sablé gave him, and so his knowledge is both limited and potentially wrong. He said the Assassins led a rebellion against Al Mualim after a failed attempt at mastering the Apple, but who leads it now, he wouldn’t, or couldn’t, tell.

Either way, there is no one in the Order foolish enough to attack the leader of the Templars for his sake. If he wants to slip away from this, from him, he can only count on himself, but Altaïr has exhausted all his options years ago.

He stares at the ceiling, dreading that soon enough lying on his back will be the only way for him to rest, swollen once more by Robert de Sablé’s seed.


	5. The Prequel

Altaïr wakes up confused, the feeling of being stared at strong enough to drag him away from sleep. 

It’s Basilah, standing in the threshold of their room, eyes fixed on him. Altaïr frowns. Basilah shouldn’t be here. She already manifested as an alpha. She has her own room now, not shared space like him and the others. Altaïr stares back.

“Altaïr.” It’s Amjad, who seems to also have just waken up, calling to him from his bed.

Altaïr stops staring to look at him. “What.”

He gulps, seemingly uncomfortable. What’s his problem? “Altaïr, can’t you tell?”

Altaïr frowns. “What is it?”

“You... you’re an omega.”

Altaïr throws Amjad an incredulous look. “You’re dumb. Everyone knows I’ll be an alpha.” Even Al Mualim agreed. Malik was mocking him about manifesting before him only a few days ago, but that they both would be anything other than alphas never crossed their mind. He’ll be an alpha and they’ll both make sure nobody messes with Kadar, who’ll be an omega. It's obvious.

Basilah is entering their room. Her glare is uncomfortable. It’s not like being sneered at by his rivals, or evaluated by his opponent during training. That glare doesn’t say equal, or better. It says prey. 

Altaïr tenses, his hand instinctively searching for the weapon he's not allowed to keep here. He is no one’s prey. If Basilah wants a fight, she'll get one. 

Amjad slides past Basilah, who doesn't appear to notice his fast escape, leaving Altaïr to deal with the crazed alpha.

A fight doesn’t seem to be what she wants. She approaches, oblivious to the growing unease her presence provokes, until her knees touch the side of Altaïr’s bed. Too close. Altaïr bats away her reaching hand. Basilah stares at the offensive appendage, then at Altaïr, as if unable to comprehend what happened. 

Amjad is back, Jasim in tow. "Hey, hey! Get away from him!" Subtlety has never been Jasim’s strong point. He’s a particularly powerful alpha, and his presence is enough to beat some sense back into Basilah. Even if it hadn’t been, she’d have been dragged away by his superior strength. 

Altaïr snorts. "I didn't need your help. I can handle her, whatever her problem is."

Altaïr gets a slap behind the head for his trouble. "The problem is you, idiot! She didn't expect to scent an unsuppressed omega."

"Where? There's no omega around."

"You can't possibly be this stupid. Smell yourself." He snorts and speaks, just loud enough for Altaïr to hear. "An omega. The Mentor will be so disappointed."

Altaïr sniffs the air, freezes, then sniffs again. He can’t deny it. They're right. He’s an omega.

Altaïr stares at himself, looking for a proof of the change. He doesn't feel any different, not weaker or more docile like he should. He still wants to beat up Basilah, fight with Malik and protect Kadar. He’s still the strongest novice in Masyaf. 

“No, you’re not going to grow another arm. Stop staring around and come with me. We’re getting you on suppressants. Now.”

Altaïr has nothing to say against that. The sooner he’s rid of that scent, the sooner things will go back to normal. 

____________________

Things do not go back to normal. 

Altaïr gets used to the whispers that follow his back, to the stares that aren’t envious or challenging like before, but condescending or even speculative. He has to set a few alphas straight, be it those that just can’t accept that an omega bested them, or those that see in him someone who will give birth to strong children. Despite the fact that the Order prides itself on treating every member as equals, he always ends up blamed for those accidents.

The Master tells him to ignore it all and to continue walking the path of the Assassin just like he used to. He tries, but he’s constantly hitting walls that weren’t there before. He starts getting critiqued for every single thing, when the same people had nothing but praises for him before. He hears one of his teachers laments that they’re wasting their time training someone that won’t be fit anymore in a few years. There is nothing he can do about it. He’s so tired of being humored and ignored when he says he won’t marry, or at the very least not anytime soon. 

It also puts a strange kind of strain on his relationship with Malik. Their future had been so clear. They had known their place in the world. Now that that plan wasn’t going to unfold, they don't know how to react. He caught Malik trying to protect _him_ from some overenthusiastic alphas once or twice, and that was something he could not, would not allow. Let Malik focus that need to protect on Kadar, who could benefit from it so much more than Altaïr ever will. The resulting fights had left them both drained and awkward around each other. Maybe, as time passes, so will this awkwardness. Altaïr will learn to accept himself, and Malik will learn not to consider it.

Maybe.

____________________

A few years later, Kadar becomes the omega they all expected him to be. Altaïr resolves to make that transition as easy for him as he can. He does not need to tread Altaïr’s path. Let him be the one to pick the fights and open the way for their brethren. Kadar will have but to follow. 

____________________

It’s the first time in years that he enjoys the stares that follow him. Jealous and hateful from the alphas, incredulous from the betas, envious and admiring from the omegas. Altaïr is the only omega to currently hold the rank of Master Assassin. It is a very rare distinction amongst his kind, but none can argue that it’s not deserved. Altaïr intends to give nothing to those that would try. Each time he comes back to Masyaf, it’ll be crowded with success. 

No matter what.


	6. Altaïr's and Malik's First Heat

Altaïr is nervous. As strange as it might seem to others, nervosity isn't something normal to him. Doubt, uncertainty, ambivalence, he had struggled with those more time than one would think, but outright stress pooling at the bottom of his stomach at the idea of what lies ahead isn't a frequent occurrence. Maybe it’s always tied to this. He can't help but fret when memories of the one and only time he did this before flash before his eyes, and it scares him at first, then it makes him angry. 

It scares him because of the loss of control that heat entails, so alien to his usual character. It scares him because he never let himself be this vulnerable before Malik, not even when they shared a bed. It troubles him because what if Malik's illusions are broken, what if witnessing Altaïr so out of it reveals him as just another omega, one more in the mass, nothing special, or, worse, what if he realises this is what he wants, a pliable omega, always submissive, always willing, and either way he leaves?

It makes him angry because those thoughts are insulting to them both. Altaïr is not defined by what he is. Malik didn't choose him only because of what he is. Reducing their relationship to just that of an alpha and his omega is demeaning. This is something they danced around for years before getting to this point, something they chose, and now Altaïr has to accept that the fire in his blood will burn once more, but now it will be because he allowed it. His partner will not steal from him, but accept what he's offered. 

All those rationalisations don't really alleviate the stress, though, and neither does the paperwork he tries to bury himself under to shield his mind from lingering on the gradual changes in his perception of the world as time passes and his nature takes hold. 

He's aware that it is perfectly normal for an omega to go into heat. He knows that Malik considers Altaïr going off his suppressants for him an honor and a privilege, not something he's owned like most alphas with omegas do. He knows he dealt with the ridicule of being Altaïr's with far more grace than he'd expected, because what kind of alpha accepts an omega of higher rank than himself as a partner, especially when he gives you neither his heats nor his children? One who can't do better, that's who. Of course, no one dares say that to Altaïr's face, but he's the Grand Master, of course he is cognisant of all rumors going around Masyaf.

It had sometimes kept him awake at night, how unfair it is of him to burden Malik with all his baggage, how he deserved all that Altaïr had to offer in exchange. During such times, the depths of the night appear darker, oppressive around their bed, but it always seems so foolish when the sun rises. Malik can make his own choices, and he would be the first one to object if he felt Altaïr was forcing himself in any way for him. They both want this to be, well, wanted. 

So he tries to push aside all those futile worries and to focus on his work, but the hours still pass so slow... Still, they pass, each more torturous than the next, until he can't stand it anymore, pushes it all aside and goes to bed. Malik is there, trying to look like he hadn't been pacing, waiting for him. Altaïr had wanted this last day of relative sanity to finish his most urgent duties before he was incapacitated, and Malik's presence would have helped not at all. It's already strange how much more conscious of Malik's presence he is, how his scent seems to demand his attention.

He knows it's the same thing for Malik. The only reason his alpha is not all over him is that he's trying to respect his boundaries. Quite frankly, sex is the last thing he wants right now. His body is already more receptive then usual, but his mind... Better to wait. Malik understands this, so he barely speaks to him and doesn't touch him, but he's still here. That's enough.

___________________

He's waken up the next morning by Malik's hand caressing his face, and maybe the way he leans into the caress is enough indication that he's affected for him, because he stills, and the first words that pass his lips are "are you all right", which annoys Altaïr. He is not, nor has he ever been someone to worry about. Malik should know better than this. But, at the same time, he does enjoy the contact, craves more of it in fact. He can tell he is in heat, not at the peak of it yet but his mind is quickly fogging with each breath he takes, all of them carrying the smell of his alpha, so instead of hurtful words it’s a sigh that passes his lips. It acts like a beacon, calling out to Malik, who closes in to chase the sound. “You smell delightful” is what he says, and even though he’s losing focus by the second he wants to roll his eyes. Better to shut him up with his own mouth.

Kissing Malik does not bring relief. It only feeds the fire, turning a bearable impulse into desperate need for more, _now_. The few layers of clothes that separate their skin suddenly are too much. They must be taken care of at this instant. 

The feeling of his lover so close does nothing to soothe him, and neither do his hands, trying to stay gentle when gentleness is the last thing he needs right now. 

Malik lowers himself and whispers to his ear, like there was anyone else that could overhear anyway, "you're beautiful" and now is not the time for that kind of endearment, not for that kind of slow foreplay, what does he think is happening, is this some blushing virgin's wedding night? Altaïr is none of those things. Altaïr _wants_. If Malik won’t give him what he craves, he’ll take it by himself. He is, after all, still the most skilled of the two.

Without giving him time to protest, he shoves Malik on his back, climbs on top of him and impales himself swiftly. It hurts, but today he’s in heat, his body can take it. The pain just pushes him on and forces a grunt out of him that has Malik thrusting up, before he realises what Altaïr has done and tries to reign in his rashness. At least, that’s what Altaïr believes he must be doing. He can’t hear him over the beating of his own heart, can barely process his worried expression.

It doesn’t take him long to position himself just the right way to ride his alpha. Malik’s hands instinctively settle on his hips, and even that simple contact spurs him to move faster, to take him deeper, to extract pleas from his lips until he can feel him growing inside. He doesn’t need more than this to reach his first, but definitively not last, orgasm of his heat, leaving him trembling and struggling to remain upright. 

Malik gives him no choice in the matter. He wraps his arms around his waist, twists and turns them until they’re lying on their side. Malik is staring at him, looking slightly worried. Altaïr can address him right now. He has a few minutes of calm before another wave hits him. “I’m all right.”

Malik doesn’t look convinced. “Are you certain? I didn’t hurt you?” 

Rolling his eyes right now isn't a good idea, so he won't do it. He's still coherent enough for this much. “I’m not that weak, I can take it. Again and soon would be nice.”

Malik chuckles. “Oh, I see how it is.” 

He’s being kissed thoroughly. Altaïr hopes that was enough talk, because he won’t be able to continue after this. 

That’s fine. They don’t need words right now.

___________________

It’s only much, much later, after having woken up sore, soiled and sated, that the stress decides to come back, which is stupid. There’s this irrational part of him that can’t help but wonder what Malik will think of him now. He can’t really imagine that it will be bad. Their time together was fine. More than fine. He doesn’t feel used, as ridiculous as it sounds. Malik is still there, sleeping besides him, and all he feels while looking at him is fondness, gratitude, love. 

“Stop thinking so hard. You’re keeping me from my sleep.”

If he was so out of it that he missed that Malik was awake, he must not be fully back to normal yet. Damn heat. What to answer. 

He doesn’t have to wonder too long. Malik caresses his face and starts again. “You were wonderful, and I loved it, but… it doesn’t have to happen again if you don’t want to.”

They talked about it. A lot. Just as Malik probably understands that Altaïr was more concerned about his reaction, Altaïr knows Malik was scared of how he’d take his second heat after the disaster that his first one must have been. “I’m fine. It was… fine.” Maybe Altaïr himself is surprised by how well it went.

Malik stares, but he must believe him because all he says is: “It’s still early. Go back to sleep, you’ll need it.” 

That seems very tempting. Altaïr bites back a smile and does so.


End file.
